Chapter 17: The Price
"Where did you learn that?" Marcie's face was scandalized. "Not in my house, you filthy child!"
"My brother taught me how to do it. Now go away. I was having fun, and you're spoiling it." Helen very deliberately turned her back on the three outraged people by the door and stalked back to her bed.
Charlie's stifled laughter broke loose at the expression on Dudley's face. Marie had her hand over her mouth as if afraid she might explode. Helen felt rather that way herself.
"What is that?" demanded the Headmaster, pointing at the corner. "Some other freakish thing you've brought in here?"
"Actually, it would be me," said Charlie, getting himself under control. It couldn't be easy for him, Helen thought, since Lutch and the Dursleys were now staring in his direction with looks of panic. "I'm Helen's invisible uncle. I'll be with her all day. And since you found it necessary to be rude, I think I'll give you just a foretaste of tonight..."
Helen couldn't see where he was pointing his wand, but she could see the results. Instead of its usual short dark hair, her mother's head was now coated with shining red scales, the exact color of the Chinese Fireball dragon.
Marcie shrieked, clutched at her head, and bolted out the door, Dudley right behind her. Headmaster Lutch gulped and started for the door himself.
"Lutch!" Charlie's voice was commanding. The Headmaster froze. "Leave the girls alone for the rest of the day, and we might – might – go easy on you tonight. But I guarantee this. It will be a night you won't ever forget. Now get out."
Helen and Marie couldn't even wait until the door was closed behind Lutch before breaking into almost hysterical giggles. "I think I love your invisible uncle!" Marie managed.
"That took guts, Fireball," said Charlie, reappearing and ruffling Helen's hair. "You just may be my very favorite niece."
Helen made a face at him. "You say that to all the girls."
Charlie knuckle-rubbed her head, then addressed Marie. "Now then, young lady, what might your name be?"
"Elliot, sir. Marie Elliot."
"Charlie Weasley." He offered his hand, and Marie shook hands with him, looking up at him in awe. "And this cousin who has custody of you, what's her name? I think you said it was a her?"
"Yes, sir. It's Rebecca Laburnum. She lives at 33 Watkin Street in London."
"Rebecca Laburnum, 33 Watkin Street, London. All right. Someone else will be here to stay with you girls in a minute or two. Please try not to blow the place up before then."
The girls giggled.
"And I'm Uncle Charlie to you, Marie, not sir. If I may call you Marie."
Marie stared at him for a moment. "Of – of course, s – Uncle Charlie," she said unsteadily. "But – why?"
"I have so many nieces and nephews already, one more won't make any difference to me. And you're a friend of Helen's. I trust her judgment. She's certainly talented at choosing families."
With that, Charlie Disapparated.
"Helen?" Marie sounded as if she was scared, excited, worried, and hopeful, all at the same time. "Why'd he want to know about my cousin?"
Helen grinned in anticipation. "My family has a way of getting what they want. And they want you. I have a feeling 33 Watkin Street will have some unusual visitors tonight."
Marie's eyes had gone very big, and her face was pale. "They want me? Why?"
"Because you're my friend. And no one deserves to stay in a place like this. You can live with us until you find somewhere else to go."
"We've only been friends for fifteen minutes, and suddenly they're adopting me?"
"Runs in the family. When my dad was my age, he was willing to punch this nasty kid out because he insulted my dad's best friend."
"That has nothing to do with this. I'm not your best friend."
"But they'd only been friends for an hour or so when it happened. And maybe you're not my best friend, but you are my best friend who's not related to me. Right now I'm only better friends with Ruby and Minnie and the boys because I know them better. Maybe later on we'll turn into bests."
"But you're going away. You're going to witch school. And I'm not a witch, so I can't go."
"We can always be pen pals. And anywhere's better than here."
Marie sighed. "True. You have little brothers and a sister, you said?"
"Right. The boys are going on 9, 6, and 5, and Mary Jane is 4. They're sweet kids. You'll love them."
Marie smiled slightly. "I do like kids. I'm good with them, too. I always used to baby-sit to earn extra pocket money. So I can do something to earn my keep, instead of freeloading."
Helen shrugged. "If it'll make you feel better."
Marie nodded firmly. "It will. Trust me."
Pop.
"Hello, girls."
"Granddad!" Helen ran to him and hugged him. "Marie, this is my granddad, Arthur Weasley. Granddad, my friend Marie Elliot."
"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Elliot." Arthur bowed over her hand, and Marie smiled at him a little shyly.
"Tell us a story, Granddad? Marie hasn't heard any of your stories."
"All right. Which one would you like?"
"The flying car, the flying car!" It was Helen's favorite story of all time.
"Flying car?" Marie repeated in a disbelieving tone. "This I gotta hear!"
"All right then. This is the story of how three young wizards went against laws and rules to save their friend from a terrible fate with the help of their father's flying Ford Anglia..."
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When Charlie's story was told, Percy, Penelope, and Hermione, as the most knowledgeable about paperwork and Muggle ways, betook themselves to London to speak with one Ms. Rebecca Laburnum about her young ward. As Ron said, "After an hour of listening to Percy, I'd give him anything he wanted."
"Maybe we should have let him loose on the Dursleys, then," Fred suggested.
"Wouldn't work," Harry said. "Percy's so much of a bureaucrat that they'd see him as that, instead of as a wizard, and then they'd feel comfortable around him and start getting rude and making demands. We need them off balance to get them to agree to anything."
"Harry, dear?" Molly Weasley came over to them. "It's starting to look like rain. Perhaps we should move inside. Find an empty classroom and wait there."
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"That sounds like an excellent idea," Harry said, getting up. "Come on, everyone. Somebody leave a note for the others for when they get back. We're moving this party indoors."
Disillusioned, the group of wizards and witches hurried down the hill, Apparated past the fence and the extremely wary door guard, and established themselves in a fairly large classroom on the ground floor, with a good view of the yard. Bill took over dealing the cards, and Fleur engaged the rest of the women in conversation about the newest line of robes from Gladrags.
Harry conjured himself a comfortable chair and sat down to watch the storm. A thump beside him told him another of the team had joined him. As she pulled her chair forward, he saw it was Minerva McGonagall. They sat in silence, watching the rain begin to fall and the first flashes of lightning.
Finally she spoke. "Harry, when you requested my help with this project, I told you there would be a price."
"And I told you I'd pay it, Minerva," Harry answered. It still felt a little odd to him to call her by her first name, but she had insisted he do so ever since the day he had married Ginny. It had been the day after Ron had married Hermione, so that they could be best man and maid of honor (or matron, in Hermione's case) for one another.
"Indeed. Without asking what it would be. I'm flattered at your trust, Harry, but it may have been misplaced."
Harry's shoulders sagged. Oh no. "You wouldn't."
"I most certainly would. Hogwarts will be thrilled to have you with us this fall, Professor Potter."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You want me to teach my own son and daughters and who knows how many of my nieces and nephews, along with a horde of wizard-born children who consider me a hero. The girls will organize fan clubs and write bad poetry to me and the boys will try to impress me by doing stupid things in the hallways and on the Quidditch pitch. Are you sure you want me on your staff?"
"Yes. Because you are the most experienced wizard in Defense Against the Dark Arts alive today."
Harry winced. The phrase brought up painful memories. "Not by my choice, Minerva. Never by my choice. I would have died for Dumbledore, for Neville, but I never had the chance. They tricked me, you know that."
"And because they tricked you and died for you, you were able to do what no one else could. You vanquished Voldemort. He will never take another innocent life. Your children will never know the kind of fear you did. That is what Albus and Neville died for, Harry, and you know that."
Harry sighed. "You're right. As usual. How do you manage that?"
"Practice, Professor Potter. Years and years of practice. You'll get it eventually."
"Nothing's settled yet, Minerva. I need to talk it over with Ginny."
Minerva smiled, the extremely smug smile of a cat who has stolen not only the cream but the cow. "Were you aware that Filius Flitwick has recently retired?"
"Erm... no." Harry didn't like the direction of this conversation.
"He told me once that Ginevra Weasley was one of the most promising students he had ever had the fortune to teach. When he came to me with his letter of resignation, he added that she had fulfilled her promise admirably. She certainly has no trouble dealing with children, since your son Sirius respects and obeys her – and no one else, it sometimes seems."
Harry groaned. "And, of course, you've already asked her if she might be willing to take a position as Charms teacher."
Minerva nodded matter-of-factly. "We've done some shuffling and remodeling to give you a suite. Master bedroom, three smaller bedrooms for your boys, a nursery with a nanny's room – Arabella Figg might like the job, if you can stand her cats – living room, and private bath. Even a small kitchen, if you don't care to eat in the Hall, and Dobby has volunteered to be assigned to you permanently, so you won't be burdened with housework."
"I knew it. Always conspiracies." Harry glared around the edge of his chair at Ginny, who waved innocently at him. "So. Two Professors Potter. Won't that be confusing for you, Minerva?"
"I'll manage," Minerva said.
Harry could practically hear her purring.
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(A/N: Gah. Too much presidential debate. Need to post chapter early.
Sorry to disappoint everyone, but Marie is not a witch. If she were, she would have gotten her letter when she was eleven, and she is thirteen. But stay tuned, and remember, I'm a sucker for reviews...
To everyone who reads but does not review, I say: (1) if you liked it, please, just drop me a few words to say so – there is no such thing as a stupid review, except a mean one, and (2) Tukyni nur osaka em tukyne puk yl ebuntir!
And if you ask me really nicely, I might even tell you what it means.
To my loyal reviewers:
Kraeg001: See, my writing is a three-step process. (1) Think about what you want to say. (2) Think like character. (3) Let 'er rip. Sometimes the most amazing things come out. Everything you mentioned in your review was a product of this technique – except the ABC Gum, which was prompted by a phone call from my 12-year-old brother. I just thought like Harry, and (IMHO) he has a wicked sense of humor, a good grasp of wordplay, and no ability to judge when he's going to get himself tickled for saying something.
Gyre: Oh yeah. :: big evil grin::
athenakitty: Yeah, they'll look the other way... if they get pictures later. This could have bad repercussions in the future, if Ministry officials are so easily bribed.
Caprice-Ann HedicanKocur: Hockey and sleep... two things I have not personally experienced in a while.
Nalini213: Hint: Max was named by his mom. Aww, isn't that cute... you found my plot bunny that ran away! You can keep her, though – I got a new one. ::wink wink::
Lady Cinnibar: But that's what brothers are for, isn't it? And how would you react if your cute little 11-year-old niece just flipped somebody off?
Joshua: Be careful what you wish for.
bewitched: Thank you – I'll remember that. Maybe someday I'll get an original fic site!
Thanks everyone for responses!)